


Where the poppy drops its seeds in the silence and gloom

by derevko_child



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gellert Grindelwald is not portrayed by Johnny Depp, F/M, Gen, Minor Original Character(s), POV Multiple, other characters to be tagged as they appear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 04:32:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10632270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derevko_child/pseuds/derevko_child
Summary: Ever since she returned to the Major Investigations Department, most of the other aurors give her a bit of space when they find themselves alone with her in the office. Mostly because they know her field clearance was being withheld because of some… trauma.Or: Almost a month after the Obscurial Incident, Tina struggles with the consequences of escaping the death cell. Picquery tries to clean up the mess arising from Grindelwald's arrest. And Queenie pretends she's moving on.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a "Tina fights crime!" kind of fic but the characters refused to cooperate. What resulted when they did cooperate is a little bit darker than it was originally supposed to be, and some scenes were written with Brian Reitzell's Hannibal OST in the background.
> 
>    
>  (In this alternate universe, Gellert Grindelwald is portrayed by an actor who is a cross between Alexander Skarsgaard and Viggo Mortensen)

i.

There’s a certain kind of misery found inside hospitals, one that she can’t easily shake off even when she’s already five, ten streets away. It's the kind that settles at the back of her head and digs inside her chest before trying to make itself a permanent part of her, as though the collective pain and suffering had found a suitable host in her person.

(Sometimes, Tina wonders if others feel the same or if it's just her. Not many people can say that they spent a few weeks in the hospital watching their parents die)

The click of her shoes on the linoleum floor bounces against the drab white walls of St. Quirinus, one of the oldest wizarding hospitals in the east coast. The outer facade of the hospital is simple and unassuming; its interiors are anything but. The patient wards stretch and twist to accommodate its occupants, while the corridors narrow or widen depending on the age of that part of the building.

The statue of St. Quirinus - in his Roman military attire with a hawk perched on his shoulder - had directed her to one of the oldest parts of the building. The hallways here are narrower, and the ceiling is so high that Tina isn't sure if there's actually one.

The bright lights try to distract her from the looming claustrophobia but with every step she makes towards the Spell Damage Wing, the walls seem to close in on her ominously, forebodingly; as though she's walking right into the jaws of a hellhound.

Tina ignores the tightness in her chest and the tingle in her fingers. Her eyes scan the names on the doors, determined to find Healer Wilkinson's office as quickly as possible so that this whole ordeal can be finally done and over with.

An owl carving on one of the doors catches her eye and the moment she takes a second look, the owl flaps its wings and the nameplate glows.

_Orenda Wilkinson_

The door abruptly swings open, leaving Tina blinking at the woman now standing in front of her. She seems to be in her early forties and her white healer robes give her a stately air. Hazel eyes peer at her inquiringly.

“Auror Goldstein?” She asks. The calmness in her voice soothes Tina's nerves to some extent.

“Uh, yes.” Tina answers and squares her shoulder, “Yes.” She says again because if she's going to be addressed as an auror, she should at least appear like she wasn't overwhelmed by the hospital's narrow, never-ending corridors.

“Orenda Wilkinson.” A small but welcoming smile appears on the older woman's face, “Come in.” She says and motions for her to come inside.

Relief appears on Tina's face the moment the healer turns her back on her. She feels compelled to apologize, except she doesn't know what for, exactly, but the thought is momentarily forgotten when she steps inside the room and warmth envelopes her.

The healer's office is a stark contrast to the hallway outside. The walls are a dark mahogany, evoking strength and stability that reminds her of Ilvermorny. Directly in front of her is a large bookcase crammed with books of all sizes and trinkets (what she supposes are) from Healer Wilkinson's travels. To her right is the healer's desk and behind it is a large window overlooking Central Park. It's charmed: they're nowhere near Central Park and, even if she didn't know where they are, the fact that it's bright and green outside and not drab and grey is evidence enough that the window is far from ordinary. To her left, a battered couch with a shawl draped on it, and a low coffee table. There's a teapot on top of it.

Tina glances at Healer Wilkinson's desk and sees a cup of tea and a plate of cookies on top of it. Half of the desk is covered with a large stack of paper and there were several quills floating about, taking down notes.

Her heart sinks a little. She had probably interrupted the healer's break.

“No need to feel guilty, my dear. I was expecting you.” Healer Wilkinson takes a seat behind her desk. A folder floats towards her hand. "You had asked directions from the statue in the atrium."

It was more of a declaration than a question but Tina nods anyway.

“We get alerted when people inquire about departments in this part of the hospital. We have had several incidents where people who go to this wing end up getting lost. Some for several days.”

“Oh.”

The healer motions for her to sit down on the chair in front of the desk as she starts reading her file. Tina does as she was told as she takes off her hat, waiting for the healer to speak again.

She doesn't lean back on the chair, maintaining her rigid posture instead. To do otherwise would mean allowing her exhaustion to take over and this is probably the worst place to show signs of fatigue.

"The Head Mediwitch's Office sent over your records yesterday. There was a note stating that you might be coming in within the week." Healer Wilkinson starts, "Do you know why they referred you to me?"

Tina hesitates, considering whether to tell the truth or not. The information contained in her report (about Credence, about Newt’s creatures, about the death sentence) was made completely confidential and Picquery prohibited her from discussing the incidents with anyone without the proper authorization.

But then, all healers are bound to an unbreakable Healer's Oath. She knows how difficult it is for a healer to divulge information about the health of their patients without the latter's consent. Not even the patient's death can break it.

"Aside from the Healer's Oath, I'm also one of the few people who had been permitted to know about the Obscurial Incident and all matters related to it." The healer said, taking a glance at her from the file before looking down again, "I was given the sample of the diluted potion Mr. Scamander used to obliviate the entire city."

A piece of paper glides in front of her and Tina plucks it from the air. It's the written authorization granted to Healer Wilkinson and Picquery's purple signature is affixed at the bottom right of the paper with the MACUSA seal.

Tina straightens the paper and puts it on the table." Head Mediwitch Crabtree had some slight concerns about the effect of the death potion on me." She says, finally.

"I see." Healer Wilkinson replies, still reading her file, "Was that all she said?" She then asks, this time, looking up from the folder

Heat rises up in Tina's cheeks. It feels like she just got caught telling a bald-faced lie.

"That's... that's the gist of it."

 _Technically_ speaking, it was the truth. But if they're being precise about it, it was ninety-percent of the truth (or maybe seventy-five? She and Healer Crabtree have very different definitions of the word "slight"). Healer Crabtree doesn't merely have slight concerns, she has _serious_ concerns— about everything. Serious enough that she was refused clearance for her proficiency test which, if she had passed, would finally let her out into the field.

"There were other things." She admits earnestly, "but the death potion was the most serious."

The older woman makes a quiet sound of disapproval and looks back on her file, "It says here you had the most severe reaction to the magical wards set up in the location where you found Director Graves."

They found the real Percival Graves on Christmas Eve, inside an enchanted music box within a painting displayed in the dining room of the Graves family home. Dark magic reeked in all corners of the house and Tina felt the protective wards before they encountered them— her head felt light, hollow; there was a high-pitched ringing in her ears that bore through her brain, drowning out all the other noises around her. And it was _so_ cold, so _frigid_ that each breath she took was a hundred sharp knives against her throat and lungs.

Being in that house felt like a death sentence. And the mere memory of it makes her stomach roil.

Tina doesn't think she was reacting to the wards itself, but she let them assume it was because of it; she couldn't tell them it was what the death potion feels like without seeing any happy memories.

She can feel Healer Wilkinson's staring at her. There’s a familiar tingle at the back of her head, like when Queenie purposefully takes a peek into her mind.

"I guess it's because I was the only one who went inside that painting." She explains, doing a little shrug as she averts her gaze for a moment, “We were very low on manpower and pressed for time.”

"I see." Healer Wilkinson says again, as she nods her head, "Do you think you were reacting to the wards?"

Tina's eyes narrow as her mind flashes back to start of the appointment, quickly parsing all the exchanges they’ve had.

“Have you been—” _reading my mind_ , she wants to ask but growing up with Queenie, she knows it's not as simple as that. And at this point, she knows that Healer Wilkinson already knows that she knows she's a legilimens. 

“You're a legilimens.” Tina carefully states as not to sound accusatory. Never mind if she still sounded rude.

“Yes, I am.” The healer answers, "And I'm slightly surprised that Healer Crabtree didn't mention it. It's the usual procedure when patients are referred to me. I also assumed you knew, considering you've been trying to block mental intrusions since you stopped in front of my door."

"Oh." Her thoughts strayed to her sister and her sweet, unassuming smile before shaking her head, "Probably just a force of habit."

Healer Wilkinson smiles and closes the folder and puts it on top of her desk, "Healer Crabtree is concerned about the effects of the death potion on your mind, specifically mental degradation. You were referred to me because I specialize in mental trauma caused by magic." She looks at her intently, “Your case is very interesting, Auror Goldstein.”

She stands up and taps her wand on the glass pane. The window turns into a silvery pool, "If you can follow me, please." She says before stepping inside the window and disappearing from view.

Tina waits a second to pass before standing up and following the older woman. She's a bit wary, although she attributes that to her misgivings about healers and hospitals in general. 

At the other side of the window is a large balcony that has a breathtaking view of Central Park. The sky is blue, with nary a cloud in sight. There are birds chirping and there's a soft warm breeze.

"Coat and hat on the rack." Healer Wilkinson has her back turned against her, "Make yourself comfortable."

She takes off her coat and places it with her hat on the rack and wordlessly sits down on the only chair in the balcony, trying to enjoy the sight before her as she waits.

"The use of the death potion started a few years after MACUSA was established," Healer Wilkinson says adopting a scholarly tone as she mixes up a potion, "The magic used to create it, however, is very old. Neither good nor bad, dark nor light,"

"On the other hand, the extraction of happy memories to placate the convict was only utilized in the early 1800s, when the Rappaport Law was strictly enforced to the letter."

Tina supposes it was easier on the conscience to put to death a Scourer rather than a witch or wizard whose only crime was to show kindness to a no-maj (or fall in love with a no-maj).

Realizing where her train of thought is leading and who she's with, Tina silently rebukes herself and recites a portion of the Anti-Beast Breeding Law.

"Now, I know you're here mainly because you want your medical clearance, and not because of a noble intention of getting well." Healer Wilkinson says, now holding a glass cup filled with amber-colored liquid.

"That's because I'm not sick." Tina counters.

"Maybe not yet." She answers. The tone was gentle but Tina heard the steel underneath it, "Have you had a good night's sleep ever since that day?"

Truth be told, no. It wasn't noticeable the first week; she was still running on adrenaline and copious amounts of coffee then, with Newt and his creatures providing a suitable distraction from everything else. There were more restless nights after Newt left, but it wasn't until after finding Graves did it get worse—so much worse.

"You are in a very peculiar situation, Auror Goldstein. In our very long history of executing criminals, have you ever heard of anyone getting a reprieve in the middle of their execution?"

A beat.

"No."

Healer Wilkinson sighs and hands her the cup, "I'm trying to help, Auror Goldstein. Escaping the death cell is not something to trivialize, even if others do so for the sake of the Statute of Secrecy."

It was said in such a well-contained bristle but it was so _full_ of concern that it makes Tina stare at the healer in surprise—surprise which she quickly masks with a small smile before quickly looking down at the glass cup in her hands.

"Thank you." She says, not knowing what to say and unaccustomed to anyone who isn't Queenie showing concern about her. "Uh, am I supposed to drink this potion?" She asks, lifting her head up.

The healer studies her face for a moment before answering, "Yes. I'll be taking a peek into your mind—like a journey to your subconscious. That potion is to prevent me from doing any damage to your memories or your mind."

"That sounds... dangerous."

"It is when you're not careful."

Tina look at Healer Wilkinson, who looks back at her expectantly, "Do I drink it now?"

"Whenever you're ready."

Tina takes a deep breath and puts the glass to her lips, drinking the potion in one gulp. It tastes like caramel, but with a bittersweet aftertaste.

Healer Wilkinson takes the cup from her and transfigures it into a small pail before handing it back to her.

A quizzical look appears on her face.

"Just in case you feel the need to expel the contents of your stomach afterwards." The healer tells her as she positions herself directly in front of her, "This won't hurt. And whatever it is that you see, hear or feel, remember that it isn’t real— that you are safe." 

The healer pauses, "Whenever you're ready."

Tina grips the pail tightly and nods her head, "I'm ready."

The healer gently puts her hand on the side of her head and looks at her, "Look at my eyes and count slowly to ten."

_One and two._

_Three and_

_four._

_Five._

It’s raining.

The downpour is torrential, the raindrops like tiny jagged pebbles sliding down her skin. Above her, lightning streaks the thundering skies.

Tina’s already drenched from head to foot when she starts running across the empty street for the nearest shelter. The water sloshes against her trousers as she steps on puddle after puddle.

It’s the kind of weather she enjoys more if she were indoors—heck, Queenie’s probably in their apartment, listening to the rain behind closed windows while sipping a hot cup of cocoa.

A shiver goes through her spine. She’d kill for a steaming cup right about now though coffee is a good alternative, she thinks, entering the deli at the street corner. She’s expecting it to be packed with people seeking refuge from the sudden rain.

She finds it empty.

Her instincts tell her to leave but logic overrides it. It’s raining outside, after all. And she’s curious too; she’s never experienced being the lone customer in this deli before.

Her clothes are wet and water drips across the tiled floor as she approaches the counter. There’s a woman standing behind it, her face obscured by the boxes on top of the counter. 

“Excuse me.”

Rough words she can barely hear answer her, a stream of gibberish uttered in harsh whispers. 

“Hello?” she says, and she cautiously goes around the counter to check if the no-maj woman who minds the cashier is all right.

The whispers continue. The sound chafes her ears as she listens to it. It almost doesn’t sound real.

When she goes around the counter, the whispering stops and the woman turns to look at her.

_Witch._

Tina freezes as fear snakes up her body and coils around her throat. 

Mary Lou Barebone stares at her. Her skin is grey and her eyes are dark, sunken and lifeless. Black tar oozes from the top of her head, trickling down between her eyes and down to the sides of her nose.

The whispers start again. They sound like fingernails scratching against a door.

“You are an abomination. A demon with a human face.” 

Mary Lou Barebone’s mouth doesn’t move but Tina can hear her voice. The woman raises an arm, pointing rotting flesh that was once a hand at her.

“God’s mighty hand will smite you and you and your lot shall burn in hell for eternity. You brought the _darkness_ to my son. And you will _pay_ for what you have done.”

Tina feels rendered immobile by her voice and the whispers that seem to be clawing at her back. When Mary Lou takes a step towards her, she almost screams from the effort it took to move her legs.

Tina stumbles backwards and she plunges into darkness.

It’s cold, here in this Stygian blackness. It tears its way inside her, entering through her scars and dwelling in her bones. 

The darkness carves into her, hollowing her mind as the whispering begin once again, sounding more and more like sibilant hisses than actual words.

Her eyes flutter to a close.

It’s just… really cold.

_Come on, pumpkin._

Tina's eyes snap open when she hears her mother voice. She pushes herself up, straining to hear where the voice came from. But all she can hear is a series of whisper.

Suddenly, there's a blinding flash of light and something give way underneath her. A piercing scream drowns out every other sound around her and her heart lurches against her chest as she feels her body plunging to the ground.

She struggles against the pull of the earth, twisting her body as the wind whips across her face. At the corner of her eye, she sees an angry black smoke being chased by angrier flares of yellow and green.

The city comes to view as she falls. But then, there’s a flicker of _blue_ and the familiar sight gives Tina a sudden jolt of strength, enough for her to apparate herself out of the air, reappearing safely onto the streets of New York plunged in chaos.

"Tina."

Blood pounds in her ears as she whips around. The voice belongs to Graves but the man standing before her is someone else.

His odd-colored eye stands a stark contrast against his pale skin. His lips twist into a smile.

"I see you’re still turning up where you’re least wanted."

She ignores the sudden ache in her chest and, with her wand in her hand, Tina casts a stunner which was quickly deflected. She tries again, gripping her wand so tightly she could feel magic coursing through her fingers.

He parries the spell easily. Tina unleashes a barrage of stunners which he easily blocks, except for the last one which pierces through his protective charm. He catches it just before it hits him, the spell latching on his wand.

The spell keeps their wands linked, and only a battle of wills can determine the victor.

Tina grips her wand with both her hands to maintain her focus. When she looks up, she sees Graves dueling with her, looking as immaculate as ever.

Their eyes lock for a second and her mind goes blank.

_You are therefore guilty of treasonous betrayal of your fellow wizards and you are sentenced to death._

She hears Queenie calling for her, screaming in terror.

_You’re going to die._

_Queenie._

Tina blinks and she hears the spell fizzling. Something hits her squarely on the side of her head and she feels a burst of pain blooming by her ear. The frigid wind seeps into her wound and she feels herself falling again into the abyss.

_Tina._

_I’ll catch you, Tina._

_I’ll catch you_

 

She pulls back and almost falls off the chair, only steadied by a quick levitation charm. Her chest feels heavy, and she gasps for breath, trying to suck in as much as air as she could. There's something digging painfully on her palm and she feels so damn _cold_.

A heavy blanket wraps itself around her shoulders and that thing digging in her hand slowly pulls away.

She waits until the violent shivering had subsided before looking at Healer Wilkinson, who's now wearing a thick winter coat on top of her robes. She's sitting beside a small fire pit and the tables have rearranged itself away from the balcony.

Dreading the worst, she looks around and sees heavy snow covering the bare trees in Central Park.

“I’m sorry.” She says through gritted teeth, her voice hoarse.

Queenie waking up screaming after being pulled into her nightmares wasn’t the worst that had happened after Graves was rescued— _this_ was the worst thing that happened: Queenie desperately trying to wake her up as the temperature in their room plummets to the negatives, the magic she was unconsciously casting overpowering the warming charm Queenie used on herself.

(she stopped taking the obstruction potion and the dreamless draught after that. She still wakes up to the bedroom covered in sheets of ice, but nothing as serious as almost freezing her sister to death)

“There’s nothing to apologize for, my dear.” Healer Wilkinson gently replies, “Although Healer Crabtree was correct to have serious concerns about you.”

She looks away guiltily, pulling the blanket tightly against her body. So much for getting her medical clearance as soon as possible.

“Do you know what’s wrong with me?” she asks in a small voice.

“To tell you the truth, no.” Healer Wilkinson replies, “It could be a number of reasons. There are just so many things being juggled by your mind.”

Tina nods her head, almost in defeat.

“Can you cast a _patronus_ charm?”

She looks up at the healer, “Right now?” she asks, somewhat in disbelief.

“Well, not right now.” Healer Wilkinson replies, “The death cell requires the extraction of happy memories.”

“Oh.” 

And casting the _patronus_ charm is always included in an auror’s proficiency test. Of course.

“I don’t know what going on in that head of yours, Auror Goldstein. But I _do_ know that you’re going to need to be able to sleep before you can be cleared for a proficiency test. “

"I just need to sleep." Tina repeats, in an almost scandalized tone.

"An auror without the proper amount of sleep is a precursor for a disaster in the field." The older woman answers, "Besides I'm not clearing you just yet."

Tina bites back a sigh, "So what do I do?"

“It was a good idea to throw away the obstruction potion and the dreamless draught.” Healer Wilkinson stands up from her chair and takes a yellow bottle from her potions table, “I would need you to drink this before you go to sleep. Two drops on any drink is enough. Although I advise against using gigglewater or any alcoholic beverage. Second,”

A wooden box floats in front of her. Tina doesn't take it, afraid that her hands are still too unsteady. The box settles on the small table beside her.

"Inside that box is a flask of a memory potion. Take it after you've calmed down from a dream. One drop to any drink would suffice. Again, not alcohol. I’ve provided you with eight vials. Extract the memory of your dream after you've drank the potion.” The healer puts the yellow bottle inside the box, “Understood?"

“What does the first potion do?”

“It’s a calming potion. Patients find it effective. Gives them some semblance of control.”

Tina nods her head, “I understand.”

“Good. It usually gets better in a few days, if you followed my instructions correctly. _Better_ , being the relative term." Healer Wilkinson glances around, "Come back next week. Maybe by then we can talk about your clearance in more serious terms."

Tina feels a spark ignite in her chest and her face visibly lights up, "That would be... nice." She cautiously says. Being cleared for the proficiency test is only the first step; passing it is a different thing altogether. And right now, she doesn't think she'll be able to pass any kind of exam, much less apparate back home. 

A soft breeze interrupts her thoughts and Tina looks around her and sees that the snow covering the trees are melting, the magic she had used to forcibly change the season growing weaker as she grows calmer. 

The empty branches slowly grow leaves and wintery white give way to a lush green.

Tina watches spring unfold before her eyes and a little hope overcomes the dread that she's been carrying ever since she stepped inside the hospital.

 

 

ii. 

Taking on the presidency was an insurmountable undertaking but not impossible—this is what Seraphina Picquery had always known. The wizarding population in the United States has so much potential and she knew, even back in Ilvermorny, that all it needed was a little nudge to the right direction.

Her goal was to usher in a new age to American wizarding society: a golden age where witches and wizards are thriving in a no-maj society without the constant fear of being discovered. There were a lot of challenges and a few minor disasters but she took everything in stride. 

She wanted to leave a legacy of a secure wizarding society and Seraphina has carved her heart, blood, and soul into it. 

She’ll be damned if she lets Gellert Grindelwald destroy it.

(it is easy to say that Grindelwald’s ideals are not so dissimilar to her own but that would ignore the implication that she believes in the subjugation of a whole class of people for what they do not have)

The breach revealed the extent of the flaws in MACUSA’s security— lapses in protocols due to carelessness were exploited while the rest were made through the dark wizard’s machinations. No ward was left untouched; Grindelwald was slowly tearing through the magical defenses and unraveling the protective wards and runes built onto Woolworth itself. Had he not been caught, everything would have been beyond repair.

It’s been a month since Grindelwald was apprehended and MACUSA is still a mess— and not just in a metaphorical sense.

Everybody – from her to the goblin clerk down in evidence – underwent an initial loyalty check. Afterwards, a small investigative team was formed to determine the extent of Grindelwald’s influence within MACUSA. Independent of the other teams formed at the aftermath of Grindelwald’s arrest, any conspirator found was to be vigorously interrogated, be subject to a speedy trial and an even speedier execution.

Seraphina glides across the lobby of Woolworth, the train of her robe swishing behind her, as she calmly surveys her surroundings.

She had discreetly called for former presidents, retired aurors, leaders of the First Nations and various magical communities around the country to help with the repair and fortification of the magical wards. It was a slow, difficult work and it meant upending several floors for it to be done correctly.

Everything was in shambles and there may be Grindelwald conspirators hiding within their ranks. It’s an extremely vulnerable position. She doesn’t show it (couldn’t show it) but she’s absolutely _terrified_ of what may happen next.

This would all be easier to deal with if Percival was by her side.

(a lot of her sleepless nights were spent thinking how she had noticed that his aloofness suddenly had a streak of cruelty; gestures that usually had warmth felt hollow instead. And looking back, she knew there was something off with him but had brushed it aside because for Morrigan’s sake it’s _Percival_. Who would want to replace Percival?

And that, she thinks, was the colossal mistake she made— instead of asking why would anyone want to replace Percival Graves, her friend, the question that she should have asked herself is why would anyone want to replace the Director of Magical Security)

But Percival isn’t here—he hasn’t been by her side for almost a year. And now the real man lays in a comatose in a secure room within St. Quirinus, while they figure out what to do with his impostor.

At the corner of her eye, she sees Nicolas Carter approaching her, a walking stick in one hand and his hat on the other. The Director of the International Wizarding Affairs Department looks dourer than usual.

“Madame President.”

“Mr. Carter.” She greets back and glances at him. He’s a few years older than her, remembering him from Ilvermorny as this charming, attractive prefect with strawberry blond hair and stormy blue eyes, who seemed far more suitable in Wampus than in Horned Serpent (he was chosen by both houses; he had chosen the latter).

She motions for him to walk with her, wandlessly casting a _muffliato_ so that she and Carter can talk freely.

“I assume the Confederation’s finally broken down our doors.” She flatly says as they go up the stairs. 

Carter and his department are the only people standing between MACUSA and the International Confederation of Wizards. He has successfully prevented them from officially barging in for almost a month now. Considering the gravity of the situation, she’s impressed that he has managed to make the Confederation wait for this long.

“Surprisingly, our doors are still standing.” He answers dryly, “Although they’ve made it very clear that they could easily break it down, if they want.”

“What’s stopping them?”

“They have yet to reach a consensus regarding our… guest.” Carter shrugs. It’s not that much of a surprise; Grindelwald is a wanted man in several countries in different continents. Jurisdiction is a tricky thing. “They are, however, demanding that we continue holding off his trial.”

“Is that all they want?”

“It’s not the Confederation, per se, but several member countries want us to share any information our guest may have divulged during our interrogation with him while some want to conduct their own.”

They make their way to the lift that goes directly to her office.

“And the British are the first in line?” She asks, quirking a brow.

Carter wrinkles his nose, “And the French. The Bulgarians too. And the Poles. The Swedes are considering it.” He says and shakes his head, “It’s a long list.”

“And what have you told them?”

“I told them that _I_ will have to consult with you first.”

Carter had started working in MACUSA at the same time she and Percival did, after realizing that he doesn’t have any acumen with the family business. He’s also one of the few people who rose in the ranks with her, and one she may even consider a good friend.

They stop in front of the lift and Seraphina turns to him, “How long can you keep our doors standing, Nicolas?”

“Months, if I have to.” He says and a dazzling smile appears on his face. In an instant, the stern-faced bureaucrat disappears, replaced by a handsome diplomat. “Just say the word.”

Sometimes, she forgets that this man can easily charm a runespoor, if necessary.

“I suppose two weeks is enough to get the house back in order.” She says. That’s enough time to finish repairing all the wards inside the building, “If they want to interrogate Grindelwald here, they’ll have to do it in our terms.”

“And if he manages to escape during that time?”

One of the wisest decisions she had recently made was to _not_ detain Gellert Grindelwald within the confines of this building. One of the things that haven’t made them look totally incompetent was the fact that the dark wizard is still in custody.

However, while the MACUSA facility on the East and West Twin Island is heavily guarded and extensively charmed, it’s only a matter of time before Grindelwald manages to escape. Seraphina knows that there are only two things that will keep this man down: if he’s dead or if his ideology is dead.

At the same time, she can’t invite foreign wizards to America with shoddy security.

“Then we’ll have the distinction of being the only government in the wizarding world who had managed to hold onto him for this long.”

He barks out a laugh, “I’ll make sure to say that word for word when the time comes.”

“And I’m sure you’ll have people swooning when you do.” A smile tugs at her lips as she looks at him fondly, “Take care of yourself, Nicolas. I need you at the top of your game until we get Grindelwald off our hands.”

“Then afterwards, I’m allowed to drop dead from exhaustion?” he asks, giving her a cheeky grin. Seraphina glares at him and he puts up his hands in mock surrender, “I understand what you meant. I just hope you do the same, Phina—taking care of yourself.”

Her gaze drops down and she nods her head.

“Percy’s going to be fine.” He tells her in a somewhat gentle tone, “He’s not going to let some dark wizard get away with taking over his life, no matter how boring it might have been.”

Leave it to Carter to get to the crux of her personal worries.

“Anyway, the next time you see me, it’ll be to announce that the British are coming.” He puts his hat on his head and touched the brim as a form of salute, “Madame President.” 

“Mr. Carter.” 

Carter gives her one final smile and Seraphina watches as he turns around and walks away.

 

 

iii. 

The tip of the quill scratches roughly on the parchment as she updates the criminal records from the past year. It’s her assignment ever since she was relegated to deskwork—the type of paperwork that gets ignored when the wizarding world’s most wanted man wreaks havoc in your city.

There’s a low rumble overhead. The water pipes of no-maj Woolworth is a bit more audible, thanks to the ongoing repair of the magical wards. Hearing it the first time was slightly disconcerting – it sounded like monsters hiding within the walls – but it was also easy to ignore.

The arrangement of the office is also a mess as the repairs seem to be the equivalent to ripping out their walls and changing the furniture. Her desk had been moved far back: if the large columns didn’t block people’s view of her, then the soaring stacks of paper should.

The parchment shakes itself to dry the ink when she pauses to double-check the investigator’s note on the record. While her assignment is a very efficient way of informing her of what she had missed while she was stuck in the Wand Permit Office for ten months, it’s also a mind-numbing task.

Mind-numbing to the point of sleepiness, if she was going to be honest about it.

Tina covers a large yawn with her hand as she takes another folder from the pile on top of her desk. The finished files assemble themselves in neat rows when she’s done with them, with the documents irrelevant for the moment (the ones probably placed on her desk surreptitiously) floats onto a separate heap.

She opens the next folder and sees the document written in runes.

Tina blinks.

_What._

She rubs her eyes with the back of her hand and looks back at the paper. The runes turn back into the alphabet she knows, stitching itself into words right before her eyes.

Tina slowly puts the file back down on to her desk, putting her quill next to it. A shaky breath escapes her as she stares at it, desperately trying to understand what just happened.

 _I’m tired_ , is the only possible answer. Her sleep is still being plagued by horrible nightmares. There’s a bit of improvement after seeing Healer Wilkinson, but exhaustion is still wearing down her bones even before the day ends. And thinking about it, she had to have lunch yet.

There’s another rumble above her.

Tentatively, she takes the document and begins to read it. It’s a report regarding the reckless use of magic resulting to a three-headed goat.

(it occurred upstate – father and son had gotten into an argument and curses – both of the ordinary language and of the magical kind – had been exchanged. One of the spells hit the no-maj neighbor’s goat, which grew two extra heads in a span of a week. Obliviators were called in before the no-maj could set everything on fire)

She reads it twice, to make sure the report isn’t something her brain made up before putting down the file and updating her record.

Woolworth’s water pipes begin to grumble again, a deep, solid growl that sounds like it comes from a large beast rather than a building.

Tina scribbles on the parchment, noting down all pertinent details for the record. For the sake of being meticulous, she checks the report again before indicating her initials at the lower corner of the document.

But instead of the report, she sees a blank page smattered with dark stains and wet blots sliding down to the bottom of the paper.

Terror seizes her, but she couldn’t help but touch the liquid before pulling her hand closer to her face to look at it. It stains her fingers like ink, but it was warm and viscous not unlike blood.

Something drips on her table. Tina cautiously peers from behind the paper.

A drop. Two.

The sound it makes when it falls on her desk is as loud as the building’s rumblings but the liquid on top of the surface were small, condensed.

Three drops. 

Four.

Five.

She bites down on her lip and takes a deep breath before finally looking up to the ceiling.

A large black cloud hangs over her, a swirling vortex that seems to be reaching out. She stays in her seat, gaping at the sight. It was growing, spreading across the ceiling in a pulsating rhythm as though it’s alive. It reminds her of an obscurus somehow and she wants to extend her arms towards him, to help him.

The haze touches her face, like long, freezing fingers grazing across her cheek.

Amidst the darkness, she can make out a face.

_Credence._

Overhead, the water pipes growl. The ceiling shudders.

_“Help me.”_

 

Tina wakes up with a start, her knee hitting her desk upon the jolt of sudden awareness. 

She’s in MACUSA, updating the criminal record. Assigned to do paperwork since she’s not certified for fieldwork yet.

Her fingers curl at the edge of her desk as she tries to calm her nerves. The deep breath she takes in is a serrated blade against her chest and the breath she lets out is an icy mist.

She fell asleep and had a nightmare in the office. 

Tina looks up. The ceiling is high and while there’s an occasional paper floating about, there’s no black cloud in sight.

 _Falling asleep at work. How unprofessional_. An indignant huff nearly escapes her lips.

Tina cranes her neck to see if anybody had noticed that she had taken a nap. She almost sighs in relief when there seems to be no one in the room.

“Everything jake in there, Goldstein?” she hears someone from one end of the room shout out. She’d forgotten about the other junior auror, Franklin, who’s also saddled with the mountain of paperwork.

“Peachy.” She shouts back as she rubs a hand on the back of her neck. The papers within her arm’s reach are all soggy and there’s frost on top of her inkwell. Her desk is also cool to touch.

“It’s getting a little bit cold in here, yeah?”

“Maybe just a little bit.”

“You sure everything’s peachy in there?”

Ever since she returned to the Major Investigations Department, most of the other aurors give her a bit of space when they find themselves alone with her in the office. Mostly because they know her field clearance was being withheld because of some… trauma.

“I’m fine, Franklin. Thanks.”

She takes her wand with a sigh and tidies up her area with a flick of a wrist. She doesn’t do anything about the chilly atmosphere— they’ve found it goes back to the usual temperature when she’s finally calmed down.

There’s another low rumbling overhead.

“Everything’s peachy.” Tina mutters and looks up at the empty ceiling, “Peachy keen.”

 

 

iv. 

New York is a cacophony of sights, sounds, and people which overwhelms and inspires. It assaults the senses— the intensity a bit too much for the city’s newcomers.

Queenie encounters a lot of these people— those newly-arrived in New York through boat or train. It’s the awe that gives them away, an admiration that’s almost reverential in character. And she knows who would thrive in the city, even if she just encountered them after a brush against her shoulder while in the crowd or a tentative smile on the street.

And when she encounters these newly arrived folks, the day gets better. Because even if there are more of them who wouldn’t thrive in New York (but they will thrive elsewhere, not just here), they’re full of _hope_. And she’s always found that one optimistic thought can drown out a sea of cynicism.

The distinct crack of her apparition was masked by the noise of the city. As she makes her way out of the alley, she gently tugs her hat to her ears and pulls her coat closer to her body. The warming charm she cast on her clothes works perfectly against the wintery chill; nevertheless, she ducks her head inside her coat. 

She doesn’t want to be seen.

Her satin pink coat has been transfigured to look woolly and grey and a glamour spell on her hair turned her golden locks into dark chestnut.

Queenie takes a deep breath before making her way to the crowd, keeping her head down as she mentally steels herself from the barrage of thoughts that will be coming her way.

It’s the end of the work day; similar thoughts are in the forefront of everybody’s minds.

… a warm dinner… _maybe a helping or two of the potatoes, if we’re having potatoes, that is_ …sitting next to the fire… _I hate the cold, when will it stop being so goddamned cold_ … some relief for the aching feet… _twenty more years of standing on the job, what does a guy have to do to get a sitting job_ …going home to the children… _can’t wait to see my girls_ …

She spins the thoughts she sees and hears to make a story, stitching in details from memories drifting in the shuffle.

_(Once there was a man who works all day in the printing press, who loves potatoes and hates the cold)_

It helps her keep focus when the voices start to become too loud, too insistent. She makes stories so that it’s her voice she hears in her head, not theirs.

_(He comes home with tired feet but always ends up with a sore back whenever he attempts to carry his two beautiful little girls all at once, his wife laughing every time)_

She trudges along the sidewalk, briefly taking note of the buildings she’s starting to become familiar with, and wonders how it will all look like when the gray slush and the dreary winter are gone.

_(He’s not a city dweller, not really. He grew up running through tall grass and open fields as wide as the sky. But he felt the city call to him, so off he went)_

For the past week, she’s been taking this little detour before going home. Her sister hasn’t noticed that she’s arriving home later than usual but that’s because Tina loses track of time when she’s working and almost always gets home later than she does.

She has no plans of telling her what she’s doing, at least not yet. Because if Teenie were to find out what she’s doing…

_(He meets his wife here. She was a plump young woman with a head full of dark crazy curls and the most beautiful smile he has ever seen. Her parents, immigrants from an old European country, didn’t approve of him)_

Queenie stops at the corner of the street and looks ahead. There’s a new shop opening in the block, and from the looks of it, it’s going to open real soon.

She catches a glimpse of him closing up the store and her heart skips a beat.

_Her Jacob._

Queenie watches as he looks at his still-closed bakery with wonder and pride. He has a new coat, she thinks, a better one that fits him and, hopefully, one that keeps him warm.

She watches as he walks southwards, with a little bounce to his step. She watches him as he disappears from her sight, and it’s only then that she becomes aware of everything around her once more. Queenie lets out the breath she didn’t know she was holding and blinked back the tears threatening to spill on her cheeks.

She knew what Newt had planned to do and she had been so grateful for it. It took her weeks to discover where the bakery might be and it’s only because of a wandering thought she plucked from a random no-maj did she discover its general location.

But this is the first time she’s seen him after they said goodbye in the subway. And the sudden pang of longing hurts.

Queenie makes her way back to the alleyway to apparate back home. There are a lot more people in the walking on the sidewalk and crossing the street, most of them relieved that the work day is done.

_(But she took his hand and never looked back. He didn’t know it then, but she saw something in him that made her heart sing)_

When she reaches the alley, she looks around before transfiguring her clothes and hair back to their usual color. When everything was set, she cautiously looks around again before disapparating.

_(He didn’t know it then but when she first saw him, she knew that if she gives him her heart, he’d take care of it more than he’d take care of his. He didn’t know it then, but the first time he talked to her, she saw a life filled with laughter, lazy Sundays, and gentle kisses under the rain)_

Tina’s already at home when she arrives and Queenie smoothes her coat, pats her hair, and practices a smile before stepping inside their apartment. Her sister doesn’t have to be a legilimens to know when something’s bothering her; Tina only needs to look at her face and she’ll just _know._

“Hey.” Queenie greets. She can smell chicken roasting in the kitchen, “You’re home early.”

She sees flashes of what transpired during Tina’s day at the office. Boring, boring… and then she sees the face of the Barebones’ boy amidst a swirl of black smoke before she sees her sister jerking awake.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, well…” Tina pulls a face before shrugging. “Where’ve you been?”

Queenie feels a slight rustle moving against her mind and Tina’s thoughts become even more subdued. 

(Tina, after their ma and pa died, learned how to block her thoughts from her. Mostly when she didn’t want to overwhelm her with her worries. It’s not like a wall that completely blocks her off; Queenie sees it more like a blanket: she doesn’t see her sister’s thoughts unless she deliberately takes a peek, but she can see the shapes underneath and all the ones poking through)

She takes off her hat and shakes off her coat before hanging them on the rack, “Walked around.” She replies lightly and goes towards the stove to check what else needs to be done for dinner.

The chicken is almost cooked and all that’s needed is to cook the potatoes and carrots.

Queenie whips out her wand and points to the cupboard. She wordlessly says a charm and the plates, bowls and utensils come out of the cupboard, and the table sets itself.

Despite the mental veil Tina put up, little details of today skittles through. Like, for example—

“You didn’t eat lunch today?”

“I lost track of time.” Her sister grumpily answers.

She wrinkles her nose, “That’s not very healthy, you know.”

Tina’s shoulders sag as she looks up the ceiling, “Oh please, not this again.” She says, sighing in exasperation.

Queenie rolls her eyes, “A healthy body helps the mind.” She says in a playful tone and flicks her wand to transfer the roasted chicken from the cooking pan and into a serving plate on the table. “You should eat properly, get some decent shuteye, blah blah blah, you know the shtick.”

She sees the smile forming in her sister’s mind before she actually sees it, an amused grin that she hasn’t sported since Graves was found.

And just like that, Queenie feels better. Not by much, but it’s enough to take her mind off Jacob, even for a little while.

“You feeling okay, Queen?”

But of course, Tina would pick up on that.

Queenie smiles. 

(But not too brightly, because Tina would instantly know something’s wrong—she isn’t the only Goldstein who tiptoes around her sister. She might be a legilimens but Tina’s exceptionally perceptive)

“I’m feeling… better.” She says, opting a shade of truth in her answer, “It’s silly, finding it difficult to move on. I’ve only known him for two days.”

Tina’s mental veil flutters, images and sounds filtering out – 

_Jacob_ ’s gaping at her as he holds on to that horrendous murtlap bite on his neck, her giggling and _Jacob_ 's laughter while Newt steals glances from across the table, _Jacob_ , Newt and Bella and the Erumpent sliding across the frozen lake, _Jacob_ standing in the rain – 

and Queenie’s smile falter, just a bit.

“It’s not silly.” Tina solemnly says.

And then she sees just _Newt_ , standing at the docks looking so vibrant with that yellow scarf around his neck. She feels the anxiety, the jitters but also hope. It’s one of those thoughts poking through—Queenie can still feel the veil between the two of them, but she can also hear an echo of Tina’s worries and the subconscious recitation of some criminal procedure.

“It’s not silly.” Her sister repeats, quietly, before turning back to the stove to finish cooking the potatoes and carrots that goes with the chicken.

She allows the silence to hang over them, watching her sister concentrate on the task at hand like it’s a strategy report for a raid in Queens.

As the carrots and potatoes transfer from the pan to the plate and the two of them sit before the table for dinner, Tina’s thoughts gets progressively louder, as the mental blanket slips away and disappears. 

Eating is at the forefront of Tina’s mind, but she can also see images of a three-headed goat and hear her list the urgent things to do for tomorrow.

 _You’re getting better, too_. Queenie wants says. It’s the truth, although it’s not as fast as Tina would like. But at the same time, she still senses her sister’s fear of going to sleep, the (rather) extreme worry that she’s going to kill her if she doesn’t wake up on time.

“The chicken’s really good.” She says instead.

Afterwards, when the dishes have been washed and they’ve prepared for bed, she makes Tina a cup of hot cocoa and reminds her to take the potion Healer Wilkinson gave her. 

And then before they go to sleep, she asks if Tina knows the story about that time with Grandpa Levi and one of his owls, when she was nine and Tina was thirteen. The owl’s name was Prudence, if you remember, the white barn owl that likes stealing Grandpa’s breakfast if given the chance. Well, there was one time…

Her sister drifts off to sleep as she listens to her.

Queenie lays in the dark, wide awake, her mind wandering to Jacob as he stands in front of his still-closed bakery, a ray of sunshine amidst all the grayness of winter.

_(That, when she decided to take his hand and never look back, she had decided that living one life with him in it is worth more than a hundred different lives without him…_

_Or maybe this is a story the man who loves potatoes and hates the cold tells himself. Maybe in another life, this story is the real one. Maybe—)_

_Love ya, Queen_ , she hears a stray thought from Tina’s drowsy mind together with what sounds like a song their mother used to sing for bedtime as she shifts around in her bed.

Queenie smiles despite herself. Tina always knows when she’s starting to feel upset. Time and again, she’s proved that she can do it even in her sleep.

“I love you too, Teenie.”

 

 

v. 

The containment facility was not intended for long-term imprisonment. A continued stay with the kind of iron built into the building is a cruel punishment, not just to the prisoner but to the aurors guarding him as well.

But they’re going to make an exception for Gellert Grindelwald.

There’s a cold rush of air as elevator doors open. Seraphina enters, followed by two of her very alert security detail.

One of the aurors presses the button to their destination. There are only five floors in this place but the distance between them is so wide that they might as well be back in Woolworth. They’ve employed no goblins, nor are there any house elves— there’s no need for them when the facility was first designed and there’s no need for them now.

The lift comes to a halt and the doors swing open, revealing the Assistant Director for Magical Security waiting for her together with three of her security detail.

“Madame President.”

She gives him a curt nod of the head, “Mr. Richardson.”

The aurors flank them, with the three walking ahead and the two falling behind, in sync, as she and Richardson walk along the unpainted corridor. The lights glare above their heads.

“The interrogation is going productive, I suppose?”

Richardson’s mustache twitches, “Hardly. All the iron in this place has weakened him to some extent, but it isn’t enough for him to yield to veritaserum—at least, not when it comes to his plans.”

The fact that Grindelwald is resistant to veritaserum is unsurprising, but it doesn’t mean that the potion is useless. She’s learned from her years as an auror that a person may be able to resist saying the truth but it doesn’t mean that their reactions will be as restrained.

“What of everything else that isn’t his plan for terrorizing the no-maj population?” she asks. The citrus smell she associates with wrought iron is getting stronger the longer they walk in this hallway.

“He thinks he’s better than everyone else; that we – specifically, Americans – are fools for being afraid of the no-majs; and that the least enjoyable part of pretending to be Graves is that the man doesn’t know how to have fun.”

This time, she reacts with a loud exhale, “All are things we already know, Calvin.”

Richardson coughs, hiding a chuckle he deems inappropriate for the situation, “Little details are spilling out but we’ll be lucky if we get anything substantial to present to the International Confederation.”

“And the little details?”

“Will be analyzed and contained in a report that’ll be on your desk tomorrow morning.”

Finally, she sees the door at the end of the hallway.

Richardson makes a swiping movement with his hand and the doors open just before they reach it, the aurors in front of them marching inside while the other two stay behind.

The room is large and divided by a magical barrier—transparent on their end but looks like a solid wall at the other side. She can taste the iron on her lips now, a tangy flavor that makes her skin crawl. 

Gellert Grindelwald is at the other end of the barrier. He sits on a metal chair right in the middle, his legs shackled and his hands behind the back of the chair, secured by a pair of manacles made of wrought iron. The intense white light above his head makes his limp hair and pale skin look translucent. He’s lost some weight and there are dark circles underneath his eyes. Even then, he still hasn’t lost the ferocity they first saw during the incident in the subway.

The amount of iron in this prison can break down a lesser wizard in three days; a week at the most. But Gellert Grindelwald isn’t just some mediocre wizard with an interest in the dark arts— he’s an ambitious zealot with an extraordinary talent for magic.

(It is in politics that Seraphina learned that the sooner she acknowledges the enemy’s strengths the sooner she can find their weaknesses)

There are two aurors conducting the interrogation, their guest in between them as they pace around the room. There are also blue orbs surrounding their prisoner, recording everything for later review.

“Can you tell us how you got here to America?” one of them asks.

“Maybe I came here by Floo. Or maybe through those… what do you call them here… no-maj is it? Maybe I arrived here on a no-maj ship.”

He is slouched and leaning back on the chair, watching the auror in front of him with interest. He gives off a relaxed appearance, but she knows that it’s merely an illusion to fool his interrogators into thinking the veritaserum is totally in effect.

“Must have been difficult, mingling with no-majs.” The other remarks.

“Quite the contrary. I found that when these… _people_ regard you as someone with wealth and power, they act accordingly.”

“And how do they act, exactly?”

“With awe.” Grindelwald replies simply before flashing a smile. It lights up his entire face and makes him appear youthful. Beautiful, even.

“And don’t you want that for yourself?” Grindelwald continues, “You have magic coursing through your veins, power that these _creatures_ cannot even _begin_ to comprehend. Why is it that we are the ones that need to hide?”

The Europeans had tagged him as an enigmatic figure. It didn’t translate well in photographs, but now she can understand why people had started listening to him in the first place.

“I pity you, Americans, truly. Having to resort to casting spells in a manner only acceptable for children without wands, just so you can hide who you truly are and… assimilate. Duels are won with _wands_ , not by waving your hands like a fool.”

Without his wand, the auror makes a small waving motion before him and a folder appears in front of them, “Witness reports say that you – wandlessly – threw a no-maj automobile on a MACUSA employee who tried to stop you from pursuing the obscurus.”

“That wasn’t a duel.” Grindelwald replies, shrugging nonchalantly. His action makes his handcuffs clang against his chair, “Merely child’s play.”

The auror makes a show of reading the file, “The report also indicates that the same MACUSA employee managed to remove your wand from your person.”

“Well, that couldn’t be considered child’s play.” The other auror interrupts, “I was there; saw her use her wand. She _accio_ ’d it out of reach.”

“Don’t you think that’s ironic? A preoccupation with wands and the witch who successfully took yours was a wand permit officer.”

“I don’t think that’s irony.” The other auror pacing behind Grindelwald says, “More like… poetic justice.”

“Both of you are gloating far too early.” Grindelwald’s grin slowly turns into a thin line of displeasure, “I’d attribute the loss of my—well, Mr. Graves’ wand to Ms. Goldstein’s luck. _Not_ her skills.” 

He then looks past the shoulder of the auror in front of him, and stares at the barrier. “Enjoying the show, Madame President?” Grindelwald sneers, contempt dripping from his words.

Seraphina glances at the Assistant Director Richardson, “I believe I’ve heard enough.” She says, and without waiting for a reply, turns around and leaves the room.

Her security detail walks ahead of her and seconds later, the Assistant Director falls in step beside her.

“When will the fresh batch of veritaserum be ready?” she asks.

“A week’s time.”

“I want Goldstein in that interrogation room when you administer it to Grindelwald.”

There’s a brief pause between them.

“Goldstein hasn’t been cleared for the field yet.” Richardson answers, “Head Mediwitch’s Office refuses to issue a medical clearance.”

Seraphina bites back a sigh. “Can’t you strong-arm Rosalyn into clearing her?” she asks, although she knows the answer will be no. Rosalyn Crabtree is not a fan of routine approvals.

“Crabtree can’t be strong-armed if she thinks it’s a health risk.” He answers, “Besides, I already tried. Warm bodies are needed out there in the field, patrolling.”

They walk in silence. Seraphina can sense that the man beside her wants to say something but is unsure of how to approach it.

When they reached the elevator, she turns towards the Assistant Director as three members of her security detail use the lift first.

“Your thoughts, Mr. Richardson?”

A beat.

“Goldstein isn’t ready, whether cleared for the field or not, and putting her in that interrogation room is very risky. Grindelwald might actually want her to be there.”

“Either way is beneficial for us.” Seraphina adds, “Goldstein can take care of herself against Mr. Grindelwald.”

“Yes, I know. I read the report.”

(It’s not just _that_. Percival saw something in the young auror that he considered her as an almost-protégé. After that debacle with the Second Salemers, Seraphina is in the opinion that Percival saw a similar reckless streak he possessed during their younger years.

She didn’t appoint Percival Graves to be her yes man and even when they were aurors, she usually stuck with her intuition but sometimes, it is wise to trust in his instincts)

“Your objections have been noted, Mr. Richardson.” She says, “I’m sure Healer Crabtree would agree with you.”

“And wouldn’t that be a rare occurrence.” She hears him say under his breath.

Seraphina hides her amusement, ignoring the slight petulance in his voice. Aurors are grateful for healers, but are not exactly the happiest or the easiest patients. Healers, on the other hand, dread injured aurors for they are not the happiest or the easiest of patients. That kind of relationship survives even when both become part of the bureaucracy. 

There’s a ping and the elevator doors slide open.

Seraphina enters first followed by the two aurors, “Mr. Richardson.” She says with a brisk nod.

“Madame President.” He says just before the doors close and the lift brings them up to the main floor of the facility. 

It is only after she had returned to her office did the bitter taste of iron leave her mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> (Enjoyed it? Intrigued? Curious? Too long?) Comments are <3


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